Page 90 of Nocturn

Rows upon rows of shelves lined the cavernous chamber.

“The Archives,” I breathed.

I rounded to face the long stretch of bookcases. No book pulled me toward it. Not like the Creation Scripture or the grimoire. I continued scanning as I neared. Shelves stretched high above, towering over even Cassiel.

“Where did you go?” I asked, rushed, whipping around.

He had disappeared entirely. My shorter legs be damned. I started down the first shelf, taking his absence to scan the spines of various lengths and thicknesses.

I reached for one of the books at my eye-level. Dust came away in a plume as I pulled it out.

Sputtering the particles from my face, I opened the unmarked book to the front. A journal of the Hundred Annum War. Flipping through, I found it to be of a housemaid serving a high-ranking blueblood official. A few more flips of the brittle parchment left me with the general idea of her daily life, more so worried about her death. I placed it back in its place, my fingers leaving indentations along the dust while a fine layer clung to my fingertips.

I crouched, sending more dust all around, and reached for the novel on the lowest section.

There was no text in this one.

Other than the cold, dry environment, these books were not being properly dusted.

Why would such a place be unkempt if they were so important?

“Vessel!” Cassiel shouted from a distance.

I shoved the book back into place and stood, brushing my dirtied hands on the bottom of my gown. Unlike before, there was no anger in his voice when he called me ‘Vessel’. In fact, there was the slightest softness . . . as if he had said an endearment.

I rounded the first row of shelves, taking a moment to admire the rest of the massive shelves stretching to the end of the spacious chamber. Cassiel sat behind a desk, the Creation Scripture set on the surface beside fresh parchment.

He leaned back as he fiddled with the base of the feather quill, his movements causing the soft tufts to flutter.

A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“I have set out what you will work on.” He spread his hand out before him in a flourish. When he was not scowling, the sharp planes of his face held an ethereal male beauty.

I approached with a slow glide, studying his face. “You are quite handsome.” His eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. “Especially when you smile.”

He exhaled in a gust.

I had shocked him. Once I reached the edge of the desk, I pressed my palms into the corner. How could someone I felt so connected to be willing to destroy whatever made me into me? My soul, my personality.

As if to emphasize the point, my chest squeezed.

A painful ache I wished to stomp down.

Then there were all the lies I had told him. Making him believe I would not attempt to escape—that I had accepted my fate when I truly did not. With his current distaste for redbloods, when he discovered my lies, he would loathe me.

He stood slowly, pushing the seat back while his hands pressed into the desk, scrunching the edge of one of the parchments.

His prowl around the desk put a knot in my throat. So slow, it had to be intentional, until he was so close I had no choice but to lean back until the edge of the desk pressed into my spine. Without saying a word, his thumb pressed into my chin, his forefinger curling under. He angled my face higher. I lifted my hand to set it on his, my fingers colliding with the cold ring almost the same temperature as him.

I caressed the edge of the ring.

“My mother gave it to me,” he said.

Did he mourn her like Volcan?

His eyes continued their sluggish churning. When he stared at me, it caused this painful ache—that bloom—to pulse. It urged me to nestle against him, to press my nose to his skin to breathe him in.

Door hinges creaked.